Chapter 20: Private Meeting

POV: IVY

My husband ordered me to meet the woman who hated me, and I went because refusing would only give her more power.

The Grand Horizon Club was perched on the thirty-fifth floor of downtown’s sleekest glass tower, overlooking a skyline shrouded in a heavy midday mist. It was a private sanctuary for the city's ultra-wealthy, where floor-to-ceiling windows framed panoramic views and the tables were spaced far enough apart to ensure complete discretion.

When I stepped off the private elevator in my tailored navy suit and high-collared silk blouse, the maître d’ immediately recognized me, or rather, recognized the face I was wearing.

“Right this way, Mrs. Sterling,” he murmured smoothly, guiding me past hushed tables toward a secluded corner booth wrapped in frosted glass.

Melanie was already seated. She wore a cream-colored cashmere blazer over a silk turtleneck, her dark hair pulled back into a sleek, flawless ponytail. A cup of Earl Grey tea rested between her manicured hands. She didn't stand up when I arrived, nor did she offer a polite greeting. She simply watched me with sharp, calculating eyes as I slid onto the plush banquette opposite her.

“You came,” Melanie said, her voice soft, controlled, and carrying an unsettling note of amusement. “I wasn't entirely sure Michael’s commands held enough weight to drag you out here.”

“I don't take orders from Michael out of fear, Melanie,” I replied, keeping my tone perfectly level and cool as I folded my hands on the table. “I came because I prefer to address problems directly rather than let them linger.”

Melanie tilted her head slightly, a thin, knowing smile touching her red lips. She signaled the waiter with a subtle lift of her finger, ordering a sparkling water before turning her full attention back to me.

“Direct is a very bold word for someone who spent the entire evening last gala hiding behind corporate small talk,” Melanie murmured, taking a slow sip of her tea. “Let’s skip the high-society pleasantries, Gemma. We both know why you're here, and we both know this marriage is nothing more than a legal fiction.”

I didn't blink. I met her gaze head-on, projecting the haughty, unbothered composure Gemma would use against a common nuisance. “If you think our marriage is a fiction, you are welcome to explain that theory to the board of directors. I’m sure they’d love to hear your insights on my personal life.”

A brief flash of cold irritation crossed Melanie’s eyes, but she masked it almost instantly with a smooth, practiced laugh. She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the marble table, her dark eyes narrowing as she studied my face with intense, microscopic scrutiny.

“You’ve changed, you know,” Melanie said softly, her voice dropping into a probing, rhythmic register. “When I first met Gemma Sterling three years ago at the charity polo match, you were loud, reckless, and fiercely protective of your social calendar. You couldn't sit still for ten minutes without complaining about boredom.”

My pulse spiked, a cold warning bell ringing sharply in the back of my mind. I kept my face entirely still, breathing out a slow, steady breath.

“People grow up, Melanie,” I said smoothly. “Marriage changes priorities.”

“Does it?” Melanie countered, her gaze turning razor-sharp. “Or does it make people reinvent themselves? Because the Gemma I know wouldn't spend her mornings reviewing hospital funding ledgers or nervously freezing when someone mentions a family holiday in Vermont. The real Gemma doesn't even know where the charity accounts are kept, she leaves all of that to her mother’s accountants.”

The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating. She was testing me. She didn't have absolute proof yet, but her instincts were razor-sharp, and she was deliberately poking at the seams of my disguise to see where the fabric would tear.

Every instinct screamed at me to defend myself, to argue back, to show anger. But anger was Gemma’s domain. Cold detachment was my only shield.

I picked up my glass of water, took a deliberate, unhurried sip, and set it back down on the table with a soft clink. I met her stare with an expression of supreme, unbothered boredom.

“If you dragged me out to lunch just to psychoanalyze my personality changes over the past three years, you are wasting your afternoon,” I said, letting a cold, aristocratic sneer touch my lips. “People evolve, Melanie. It’s a shame your obsession with my husband hasn't.”

Melanie’s eyes flashed with genuine anger at the insult, the polite mask slipping for a fraction of a second. She sat back against the banquette, her chest rising and falling with a shallow, controlled breath. She realized I hadn't given her the explosive reaction or the concrete confession she was fishing for.

Yet, her smile returned, thinner, colder, and far more dangerous than before.

“You think you're very clever, don't you?” Melanie whispered, her voice dropping into a chilling hum. “You think because you managed to trap Michael into a legal contract and secure your family’s assets, you've won. But a name on a marriage certificate doesn't buy history, Gemma. It doesn't buy intimacy. And it certainly doesn't buy trust.”

She reached into her designer leather handbag resting on the seat beside her. She pulled out a slim, manila folder secured with a red elastic band and placed it squarely in the center of the table.

She slid the folder across the smooth marble surface until it stopped right in front of my hands.

I looked down at the folder, then back up at her face. “What is this?”

“Open it,” Melanie instructed quietly, her eyes gleaming with dark triumph. “It’s a collection of discrepancies. Flight manifests, banking logs, and administrative records from the past month regarding your family’s estate and medical trusts. Right now, it’s sitting in my hands. But it takes very little effort to forward copies directly to Michael’s private investigator.”

My breath caught in my throat. The room seemed to tilt slightly around me. She was closer to the truth than I had ever imagined. If Michael saw those logs, if he discovered the financial maneuvering behind the hospital transfers and the missing pieces of Gemma’s timeline, the entire house of cards would collapse. Grandmother’s funding would be cut instantly, and I would be thrown to the gutters.

I forced my hands to remain steady. I did not reach for the folder. I did not let my panic show on my face.

I looked straight into Melanie’s dark, calculating eyes, keeping my voice ice-cold.

“If you have evidence of a crime, Melanie, you should take it to the police or hand it directly to my husband,” I said, leaning back with calculated indifference. “If you’re just trying to intimidate me with a folder of gossip to soothe your own insecurities, you are wasting your time.”

Melanie stared at me for a long, silent moment, searching my face for a single crack of terror. When she found only calm, frozen defiance, her smile tightened into a thin, dangerous line.

She stood up slowly, smoothing the wrinkles of her cashmere blazer, her eyes never leaving mine.

“Keep playing your game, Gemma,” Melanie whispered softly, turning away from the table as she prepared to leave. She paused, looking back over her shoulder one last time with a look of absolute, unyielding malice.

“I don't trust you,” Melanie said, her voice carrying clearly across the quiet corner of the restaurant. “And soon, neither will he.”